


The First Martyr of the Revolution

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: #justiceforcourfhat, 90 percent fluff with a side of Jehan The Morbid Bean, Canon Era, I can't write anything canon era without putting in Meta Angst, I would like to personally apologise to Courfeyrac for destroying yet another of his hats, M/M, has been described as 'bittersweet', just some soft boys kissing in the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-10 00:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: May 1932: the first martyr of the revolution falls, Courfeyrac disdains umbrellas, and Jehan allows himself to be pulled from his premonitions by an unexpected kiss (or two, or three) in the rain.





	The First Martyr of the Revolution

When the rain begins, Courfeyrac catches the first few drops on his palm, then looks up at the sky with a frown, “It seems our evening walk must be cut short, Prouvaire.”

Jehan also looks up, wrinkling his nose as a droplet hits him square between the eyebrows, then smiling as more dot his cheeks, “In truth, I am relieved; the weather has been unbearable this last week. It is good for all things to break tension and find release,” Something about the cadence of the words echoes in his mind pleasingly, and he is distracted for a moment, thoughtful - “Oh, I like how that sounds, I must not forget, I’m sure I will find a use for it… _it is good for all things to break tension and find release_.”

“That may be so, but we are gone too far from the Musain to venture there for shelter,” Courfeyrac says, looking back the way that they had come with his hands on his hips, then turning back to his companion with eyebrows raised, “Especially as you habitually neglect to wear a coat.”

They had left the Musain thirty minutes prior; the weather that May week had been stifling and muggy, to the point where Enjolras had actually consented to end the evening meeting early because the air had been almost too thick to breathe in the back room and no one could move for sweating. Enjolras, Feuilly and Combeferre had hurried off, heads together, to speak to a printer, and Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel and Grantaire had sped in the other direction with minds towards drink and fine company. Courfeyrac had expressed that he had no interest in spending time in an enclosed space with lots of people - “I chose just the wrong day to debut my new waistcoat,” he'd grumbled, plucking miserably at the sweat-soaked material - and so when Jehan, feeling too pensive to go out and too jittery to sleep, suggested they amble along the Seine, where the air was cooler, it had been a very pleasant idea.

Neither of them had considered rain.

“The skies have been clear these last few weeks, I did not think it necessary,” Jehan says, shrugging, “And it is no matter, I live not too far from here, and a small shower will not impede me on my travels home. I daresay it will be a pleasant refreshment.”

Courfeyrac snorts, incredulous, “Not too far? My dear Prouvaire, you live a half-hour walk from the Musain, further even from our very spot, and this small shower is rapidly turning into a deluge of biblical proportions.”

As if to prove him correct, a rumble of thunder echoes through the sky, and the rain begins to fall in earnest. They both hurry over to take shelter beneath an awning. A drop drips off the end of Jehan’s nose and he laughs ruefully.

“Perhaps you are correct. What would you suggest?”

“My lodgings are a ten minute walk from here, five minutes if we are brisk. Marius is out most evenings nowadays, pursuing his _alouette belle_ or working, so I will likely have a spare bed, and if not, you are welcome to stay until the rain eases,” Courfeyrac holds out his hand, grinning, “Will you come?”

“A most generous offer,” Jehan says, shaking Courfeyrac’s hand with a smile and then squeezing it, “I will accept.”

Courfeyrac shrugs off his coat, takes his hat and cane in one hand, and lifts the coat up over his head, “Here, if you step beside me we can both have some modicum of cover.”

“You did not bring an umbrella?” Jehan asks, teasingly, and if it weren’t for how ridiculous he looks hunched with the coat clutched over him, the expression Courfeyrac shoots him would be disparaging.

Jehan imagines taking the moment, holding it fast in time, and siphoning it into a little bottle in his mind, so he can pour it out and think about it later. Combeferre had told him just the other day of a man who has discovered how to trap light in a single image, and he wishes he could do that with Courfeyrac’s half-offended scowl and mussed curls.

The meetings have been growing more solemn of late, with talk of barricades and inevitable violence, and Jehan has an ominous, premonition-like feeling deep in his chest that there will be a point, just over the horizon and out of sight, when he will need to search out such soft, sweet memories, and hold them tightly in their little bottles.

Jehan shakes the thought from his mind and ducks under the coat beside his friend. Huddled together, they stagger out into the rain. Although they are a similar height Jehan’s legs are longer and he takes greater strides, so their movements are awkward and out of sync, elbows and shoulders bumping as they splash down the empty streets. Twice Courfeyrac manages to bump Jehan in the back of the head with his cane, and the second time Jehan is startled enough that he accidentally knocks Courfeyrac’s hat from his grasp.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, in a tone of both dismay and resignation as they stop and watch the very fashionable and doubtless expensive hat tumble to the cobbles and roll a little way, ending in a puddle. Jehan scrambles after it with an apology, squatting to snatch it then standing up quickly, turning on the spot.

Courfeyrac is suddenly very, very close.

He must have followed after Jehan, shadowing him to try and keep him covered by the coat, but that thought in Jehan’s mind is distant somehow, because all he can focus on is Courfeyrac’s warm breath on his cheek, how long his eyelashes are as he blinks in surprise, the flecks of green in the deep brown of his eyes.

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac again, in a very different tone this time, voice slightly strained. Jehan’s gaze flicks downwards to watch his adam’s apple bob as he gulps.

It’s dark under the shade of Courfeyrac’s coat, the shadow thrown by the yellow streetlamp’s glow making the moment feel strange and unearthly. He isn’t sure how long they stand there, barely a finger-length between their noses, before Jehan’s body acts almost without instruction from his mind; he places one hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and closes that last space between them by slowly leaning in and pressing their mouths together. It’s a sweet thing, lingering but gentle and chaste, an impulse brought on by the particulars of the light, and the strange intimacy of being huddled in away from the rain. The world seems to fade out, the insistent drumming of droplets on the coat and the cold of the wet patch growing on Jehan’s back where he’s not entirely sheltered becoming nothing but vague sensations compared to the feel of lip moving against lip.

Jehan pulls away as slowly as he leaned in, and they are back to being a finger-distance away. Courfeyrac makes no move, simply staring, apparently dumbstruck. It is quite ordinary for friends to kiss one another, though this is something more… purposeful, and Jehan knows Courfeyrac understands that from the way he can feel his pulse hammering under his hand. Jehan feels the very beginnings of apprehension kindling in his gut - has he overstepped? Before that night they'd never pursued more than the vaguest of cheerful flirtations, a manner of interaction that Courfeyrac employed with many of their friends, but something about the moment had seemed _right._  Jehan slides his hand down to Courfeyrac’s elbow. It feels like safer territory somehow.

“Courfeyrac-” he says softly, but is cut off when Courfeyrac abruptly drops one corner of the coat, letting it flop down over their heads, places the free hand on the nape of Jehan’s neck, and pulls him in for a kiss of searing intensity.

Jehan isn’t sure there’s a way to be pleasantly winded, but if there is, then this is it. All the breath has left his body and his head is spinning. He feels the hat, held limply in his hand, drop from his fingers, and now with both hands free he wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist and clutches at the material of his waistcoat. They pull apart sooner this time, though they’re both left panting. Jehan lifts the corner of the coat up off their heads, so they can see each other better. Courfeyrac skims his thumb along Jehan’s jaw with a small smile.

It is extraordinary to move so freely into such a tender intimacy.

“We should keep moving,” Courfeyrac murmurs, “My lodgings are just along that street there,” and then, so casually that the words could not possibly be trivial themselves, “You know, I would be rather remiss as a host if I did not ensure the removal of your wet clothes. I could not _possibly_ be responsible for you getting ill.”

The tone is suggestive, but light enough that it allows for Jehan to easily dismiss it if he so chooses. It’s an _invitation_. A tense kind of excitement fizzes up in Jehan's chest - anticipation, he realises. Anticipation for what the evening might potentially hold.

Jehan slides his hand around to grip Courfeyrac’s hip, then lets his fingertips dig in ever so slightly, “Your clothes are no dryer than mine. What kind of friend would I be if I did not ensure the same?”

“It is settled then,” Courfeyrac says with a bright grin, “We neither of us shall get ill.”

“I am glad we are in agreement.”

They smile conspiratorially at each other for a few moments. Then something seems to occur to Courfeyrac; he glances up at Jehan's hand holding the coat, then down at his other hand resting on his hip, brows furrowed, “Hold a second, where is my-?”

Jehan looks guiltily over his shoulder and Courfeyrac’s eyes follow. The hat is there, in a murky puddle again, right where Jehan dropped it. It looks to be completely soaked through.

Courfeyrac heaves a mournful sigh, and Jehan is about to apologise when Courfeyrac shakes his head, smiling wryly, “It died for a noble cause,” he says, ghosting his thumb along Jehan's cheek, as if to remind him what the ‘cause' had been. Then his smile turns mischievous, “First martyr of the revolution, hmm? You should write it a eulogy.”

The humour is somewhat dark, but in an odd way it actually makes Jehan feel better to hear, to know he is not the only one ill at ease with the distant spectre of the insurrection. In the Musain, almost blinded by Enjolras’ revolutionary fervour, it is always easier to look to the days ahead and bask in his vision of their victory, see with him the spirit of their motherland ready to usher them into a glorious dawn - however, once he leaves that protective light, there is nothing to stop his mind’s eye contorting that into other potential outcomes, ones where the National Guard swarm the barricades like hungry ants, come to tear their lives from them with gunpowder and bullets and fire. He is not afraid of death, but _dying_ , watching one's friends in pain, butchered, crying out, weeping blood as they fall, oh, that is another matter, that is-

The thoughts in his mind are dark and spiralling, but Courfeyrac’s face in front of him is warm and open.

If he wanted, he could dive deeper, allow these thoughts to consume him, and such an experience would be not pleasant but it would be _something_. It could be used to inspire the words that flow from his pen. In its own way, the terribleness could be almost beautiful, could _create_ beauty.

This time, he chooses the other path. He tucks himself back in at Courfeyrac’s side, each with one arm around the other and a hand supporting the coat. The solid presence at his shoulder is grounding and draws him back to the here-and-now. He feels his dark begin to mood slip away, like sand between his fingers, leaving nothing but a sour taste in his throat.

“Think of it this way,” Jehan says with forced joviality as they set off - pressed in much closer together they are more coordinated than before. “Some poor fellow with aspirations of dandyhood may find your hat and thank the heavens for being greatly blessed.”

“That is true,” Courfeyrac acquiesces, “Well then! I wish him great joy of it.”

They round the corner, onto the street that Jehan recognises as Courfeyrac’s address, and he remembers the words that had sparked his fit of melancholy; _a eulogy_. A thought occurs to him, light and perhaps a little silly, though something that will ease the premonitious weight in his chest, so when they reach the correct building Jehan hops up onto the stoop ahead of Courfeyrac and turns so they're face to face under their makeshift cover.

He clears his throat and presses his hand to his breast with a flourish,

          “ _Under the light of fifty yellow eyes,_

_The dark cobbles awash with a deluge,_

_Our fallen friend toppled down from on high,_

_We honour solemnly with this night's fugue._

_As he finds his last resting place on these damp streets,_

_We come to know all things must break and find release_.”

“'Fugue'?” Courfeyrac says, amused.

“Composing without preparation is not a strength of mine - I could think of nothing else that rhymed,” Jehan admits, then counts syllables under his breath, “Damn, four tens and a couplet of twelve each, and an unfortunately English rhyming structure.”

“I liked it well enough,” Courfeyrac rests his hand on Jehan's neck again, “You must write it out for me later.”

“I must, must I?” Jehan raises his eyebrows, playing at petulance.

“I'm sure I could find a way to repay you for the service,” Courfeyrac says in a low voice, and Jehan laughs and kisses him as the rain patters down around them.

The heat is still present, even in the rain, however it has eased to a more comfortable level and a breeze has picked up. The streets of Paris glitter in the yellow lamplight. The night is young, _they_ are young, and they have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> link to fanart here - littlesmartart.tumblr.com/post/176025917247/


End file.
